Dark Entries (10 page)

‘Gunter seems a little under the weather. That cough . . .’

‘I know he’s slow. I’m sorry.’

It was not the aspect of Gunter’s case which Fenville had in mind. But she spoke again.

‘Do you often go to a restaurant with one woman and abandon her to chase another?’

‘I could not help myself.’

‘It was love at first sight?’

‘I think it must have been.’

‘If you are not certain, it wasn’t. When it happened to me, I knew.’

Hardly believing his ears, Fenville softly said, ‘I knew too.’

She put down her needle, and yawned slightly. ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘how do
you
pass the long hours of waiting?’

‘I work. I’m an architectural student.’

‘An architectural student dining at the Entresol?’ She had risen and was coming towards him. Fenville caught his breath.

She did not seem particularly to expect a reply; but Fenville said peacefully, ‘It was a special occasion.’

She sat down in one of the big armchairs and, drawing up the wide sleeves of her dress, exposed her white forearms to the blaze. ‘Was that your wife?’

‘No,’ said Fenville. ‘Just a friend.’

‘Ah, a rich girl, an heiress.’ Fenville realised that this was not after all difficult to deduce. ‘What a pity I’m not rich.’

Fenville gazed at her charming mouth, her young lashes, her soft skin, her perfect wrists, and miniature hands. ‘You are beautiful.’

She made neither movement nor reply. She said, ‘All the rooms in the house are different. Done by different designers: the best men of their day. This is the Quattrocento Room.’

‘Yes,’ said Fenville, glancing round. ‘Will you show me the others?’

‘The others are empty now. Locked up and shuttered. I’ve had to give
up entertaining.’

‘Did you entertain a lot?’ She looked about nineteen or twenty.

‘Every night. The house was never anything but full. That was when my father was alive, of course. I was hostess.
Young though I was, he always preferred me to my mother. Then one night he shot himself, and I found we were ruined.’

‘What a terrible thing! How long ago was this?’

‘Oh I don’t know. Years ago. My mother went mad. She was always unsophisticated, poor Mother. Father couldn’t stand her in the room with him.’

‘I see. I’m very sorry.’ Fenville could think of nothing more to say.

‘Yes,’ the girl replied gravely. ‘It’s a tragedy to be poor.’

Fenville reflected. Again it was not the aspect of the matter which he had been thinking of. Staring at the huge lumps of blazing coal, he said, ‘Have you ever considered coming out into the world?’

‘I came out into the world only last night. I used to go to the Entresol with my father. I go there still whenever I want to think about him or ask his advice.’

‘That was why you were sad?’

She gazed at him with her big brown eyes. ‘I loved my father.’ It seemed she might cry.

‘Yes, of course. I’m being a fool.’

‘And I needed him to tell me what to do.’ She was still staring at Fenville, melting his heart and wits.

‘But didn’t you say he was dead?’ The words were said before he had thought.

‘He still tells me what to do when I’m in trouble. At least he usually does. Last night he didn’t.’ Her voice was full of bewilderment and regret. She slowly turned away her head.

She seemed to want, as one says, to ‘talk about it’, and the oddness of her remarks were for Fenville exceeded by their tenderness. ‘I’m sorry you were disappointed,’ he said.

But a new thought had struck her. ‘Perhaps he sent
you
to advise me?’ she cried. ‘Instead of doing it himself. That would explain everything,’

‘Perhaps it would,’ replied Fenville, again rising to the obscure occasion.

‘That was why you left your wife and followed me all the way home. I thought it was love, but it was something
far more important. Dear Father!’ She had clasped her hands together at her breast and her eyes were sparkling. There was a quality very juvenile also in her reference to something far more important than love.

‘It
w
as
love,’ cried Fenville, blushing again. ‘And Ann is
not
my wife.’

‘Ann?’ She was looking at him almost with suspicion.

‘Ann Terrington. My friend last night.’

‘Oh yes, that country-looking girl.’ She was so excited that she seemed to find difficulty in following her own train of thought. ‘Do you think my
father did send you here to be my friend?’

‘I think he must have done.’

‘I
need
a friend.’

Fenville smiled into her eyes. ‘Here I am.’

‘My friend! My friend!’ She was clapping her hands and imitating a happy child. It was enchanting. Then her face changed and she said, ‘Are you to be trusted?’

‘Yes,’ said Fenville steadily. ‘I’m to be trusted.’

‘With my heart?’

He stretched out his arm and touched her hand. She drew her hand away and said, ‘But of course you know nothing about it.’

‘You must tell me, Dorabelle.’

It had occurred to him that in support of the preposterous notion about her father was at least the curious intervention of Dr Bermuda.

‘You know my
name?’ She looked genuinely startled. ‘How do you know it?’

‘As I love you, I made it my business to find out. And my name is
Malcolm.’

She giggled. ‘“What’s the boy Malcolm?”’

Although Fenville missed this reference, he liked her laughing at him. But she had a rather high laugh, which seemed unconnected with her normal voice, and which struck Fenville as much less beautiful.

‘Where’s tea? I’m going down to look.’

She flashed across the room like a kingfisher, and Fenville
followed her along the cold passage and down the stairs.

‘Really, Gunter doesn’t deserve to work here another day. Look, he’s left the almonry open.’ She was pointing to the small chest in the hall.

‘Shall I shut it?’

‘And lock it. The key is
never supposed to leave Gunter’s chain.’

She was gone, presumably to the servants’ quarters. Fenville walked across the torn and dingy hall carpet. Before locking the chest, he could not but look inside. It was packed tightly and systematically with wads of black-and-white Bank of England notes. Although it was not a large chest, there must have been many thousands of pounds in it. One wad, bound in
red tape, lay loose on top of the rest. Fenville regarded the cache for a moment, thrust his hand and wrist deep into the packed, silky money, then, savouring the contact of the crisp paper, closed and locked the chest. He departed to look for Dorabelle.

There were many windy corridors, shut rooms, and alcoves walled up with cobwebs; but he could hear Dorabelle’s voice in the distance, and found his way to it. The flagstones which floored the back premises were so uneven that Fenville thought it would be easy to trip and crack his skull.

When indeed he reached the vast square stony kitchen, he thought at first that something of the kind had happened to Gunter. The old man sat on a wooden chair with two spokes missing from its back, and leaned his head on a corner of the immense table. There was no sign of tea, and Dorabelle seemed to be railing at him.

‘Here’s the key,’ said Fenville.

At the words Gunter raised his head, sat up, and feebly snatched the cold object. He drew a key ring on the end of a chain from his trousers pocket and began to pick at it with his clumsy, bony fingers.

‘We shall have to get
tea ourselves,’ said Dorabelle. ‘Gunter is fit for nothing this afternoon. It is a disgrace when a visitor pays me a formal call.’

Gunter continued weakly to fiddle with the ring.

‘Better let me do it,’ said Fenville, depressed and rattled by the sight.

Dorabelle stood silently watching him as, none too adroit with key rings himself, he slowly went through the necessary motions, splitting a fingernail in the process.

‘Will you kindly help with tea also?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Fenville hastily, turning his back upon the supine Gunter. ‘What shall I do?’

‘Everything, I’m afraid,’ said Dorabelle. ‘I’m not accustomed to doing housework.’ Then she added, ‘Isn’t the kettle boiling?’

It was an enormously heavy and capacious iron object, mounted on an antique coal ‘range’. The fire in the range was so low that Fenville could only suppose that the kettle had been on all the afternoon. Fenville made the tea in a mighty silver pot which stood surrounded by boat-like cups on the monumental dresser.

He looked round for food. There was a number of cupboards, with wooden doors painted in yellowing white. He opened one: and immediately shut it. All the shelves were piled not with grocery and provisions but with wads of bank notes, like those in the hall chest.

It was by no means the largest of the cupboards, but Fenville did not venture upon another. He said. ‘I’ve made the tea. What happens next?’

Dorabelle was standing at the other end of the big, bare kitchen table. She was looking at Gunter with an expression of hostile curiosity.

‘We’d better go back. There are some sweet biscuits upstairs.’

Fenville placed the silver teapot, the silver milk jug, the silver sugar basin, and two cups on an ornate and weighty silver tray, and followed her to the Quattrocento Room. Here she produced a robust silver biscuit barrel and offered it to Fenville. It contained biscuits about five inches in diameter and at least half an inch in thickness. They bore no maker’s name, and proved to taste of aniseed.

‘I am going to tell you everything,’ said Dorabelle, sipping tea from her large flat cup. ‘It is my father’s wish.’

‘Yes,’ said Fenville. ‘I think you’d better.’ After all, she had as good as said that she loved him.

‘I’m in love. Terribly in love.’

Fenville smiled fondly at her.

‘Much more than you.’

Fenville shook his head.

‘It began just after my father died.’

Fenville put down his cup, spilling the tea.

‘I don’t know his name.’

Fenville looked at the floor, his heart like a stone round his neck. ‘I misunderstood you,’ he said. ‘It was my fault. I don’t think you’d better go on.’

‘Oh, but I must go on. No one else knows. You will tell me what to do.’ Again her eyes were full of lights. Her hands fluttered in
her lap, like newly born doves.

Fenville made a despairing gesture of acquiescence. Seated intimately behind the tea tray, she looked more charming and attractive than ever.

‘There’s a big looking glass. It used to be in the Versailles Room. I hid it when the other things went. In the end I put it in my bedroom.’

Curiously enough Fenville had not considered the question of where she slept.

‘I used to look at myself in it for hours on end. And then one night I wasn’t there.’

‘You mean you were away?’ It would probably be as well to listen sympathetically. There might be pickings of comfort and stealings of hope.

‘No, no, of course not. I never go away. I was going to bed one night – ’ her eyes were cast inward upon the memory – ‘and I looked in the glass and there was no one there.’

For the first time it occurred clearly to Fenville that she might be a little deranged.

‘That was all. I thought I was going mad. I shut my eyes. Oh, for a long time. When I dared to open them again, I was back in the glass.’

‘I expect you were overtired.’

She smiled: an exquisite smile of climax and revelation. ‘When I looked the next night,
he
was there.’

It dawned on Fenville that this was no true rival at all. The relief of it. ‘Tell me,’ he said encouragingly.

‘I had only just entered the room. In fact the first I saw of him was merely a glance over my shoulder. Then I looked full in the glass. I wasn’t there: and he
was.
I loved him at first sight, just as you did me. I don’t suppose you’d be here now, if he hadn’t taught me how to love at first sight.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘He’s about the same age as me and terribly handsome of course, especially when he wears fancy dress. He does sometimes. He’s dreadfully vain.’ She smiled contentedly.

For Fenville’s latest hopes a bell began to toll. ‘What sort of fancy dress?’ he asked.

‘The sort that makes men look good. Eighteenth century, with a powdered wig. Or Regency buck. Oh, he knows how to make the most of himself.’

Fenville’s cup was empty, but she did not offer to refill it.

‘Do you talk to him?’

‘Yes, of course. He talks wonderfully.’

‘But you said you didn’t know his name?’

‘He’ll only tell me if I agree to marry him.’

‘You can hardly marry a man who lives in a mirror and whose name you don’t know,’ said Fenville primly.

‘Of course I could. It would be the only kind of man I ever
could
marry. My father would have known that.’ She glared at him in proud disappointment. For a moment it struck Fenville that she had picked up that hard look from the baleful lover. Then her face softened. ‘But there
is
a difficulty. That’s what I want advice about.
Please
advise me.’

‘All right.’ She seemed quite to forget that he, Fenville, might have some rights of his own in the matter. Then he recollected that indeed presumably he had none.

She went on raptly. ‘He will insist that I’m an heiress. He’s too silly about it. He keeps on saying the house is
lined with money. As if I didn’t know what was in my own house.
That,’ she said, entering a side issue, ‘was why I was so careful to make things clear to
you
from the first.’

‘Yes,’ said Fenville. ‘Thank you. And the point is that you don’t want to marry a fortune-hunter?’

‘Not at all. If I married him, I should naturally give
him everything. But I don’t want him to marry me thinking I’ve a lot of money when really I’ve nothing.’

‘But if you keep telling him—’

‘He won’t listen.’ Her small hands were clenched.

Fenville was about to say ‘Then he’d better take his chance,’ but managed to stop himself. There was no point in handing his rival victory on a plate. He said, ‘I don’t think his obstinacy promises well for matrimony.’